


Apollo and the Aluminium Crutch

by Nakahara



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Case Fic, Johnlock - Freeform, Lestrade in danger, M/M, Post S3, mysterious murder at London Eye, scary Greek god is somehow involved in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 16:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7580947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakahara/pseuds/Nakahara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Innocent stroll near the London Eye takes a macabre turn as mysterious murder takes place there right in front of Sherlock´s and John´s eyes.<br/>That all in a time when John recovers from the wreckage of his catastrofic marriage and is haunted by a strange premonition involving certain Greek deity...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apollo and the Aluminium Crutch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dioscureantwins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/gifts).



I still remember how astonished I was when I first saw the statue.

Mycroft’s office, into which I was unceremoniously pushed, was immersed in a warm semi-twilight. Wooden panels covering the walls, barely visible in the background, hid in a mead-coloured shadows, while the strong sunlight coming from outside painted shiny ovals on the surface of the thick carpet there under the windows. All was silent and undisturbed. Only the particles of dust shivered in rays of light which cut across the heavy air. 

And there it stood, in the alcove placed right at the edge of the darkness and sunshine.

It startled me because at that first moment, when I was still disoriented, I shortly believed it to be the sculpture of Sherlock.

Tall, beautiful young man displayed his nakedness with a sensuality that was not entirely masculine. Lush curls covering that proud head fell on nicely formed shoulders in heavy waves, whimsically backswept and long white neck offered itself to the spectators as if it awaited a kiss. Large cloak, clasped by the brooch, only existed as a narrow strip spread over both clavicles, leaving nothing to imagination otherwise. Yet there was nothing animalistic in that face. Strong jaw, broad forehead and bold, direct gaze spoke of a composed character and a keen intellect… if statues could think, of course.

“Impressive, isn’t he?”

Mycroft! As usual, he gave me a nasty shock when he appeared behind my back so suddenly. His eyes bore into me with undisguised irony and his lips were drawn into an unpleasant, contemptuous smirk. Damn him!

I stammered that we had a similar statue of Apollo at the university during my student days, but Mycroft didn’t listen to me at all. He leisurely went around me, moving silently as a cat and seated himself behind his writing desk.

“I understand why you are obsessed,” he continued with his soliloquy as if I didn’t utter a word. “But don’t succumb to him, Dr. Watson. He’s a cruel god.”

He made a pregnant pause after this sentence, to further emphasise it. 

Then, without any further ado, he flipped open some report and tore into me. He told me that Sherlock had been observed near a notorious drug-den in Southall and accused me what a lousy job I do, taking care of him. I switched to the battle-mode immediately and replied sarcastically. And so the issue concerning this sculpture was forgotten momentarily.

But all the while, it remained hidden at the back of my mind, dwelling there in the form of some vague, undefined unease.

“Don’t succumb to him, John. He’s a cruel god.”

xxxxxxxx

It’s weird how things buried in our past resurface when we least expect it.

Nothing indicated what would happen today. The day was very hot and the azure sky above Thames so clear and deep, it dwarfed even the high white arc of the London Eye into humbleness. Those blue depths invoked the sense of pleasant vertigo, while the waves of the river glistened invitingly, resembling the polished surface of some strange metal.

The ice-cream melted slowly in my mouth, cold and absolutely delicious.

“Is this vanilla?” Sherlock, the sworn enemy of all sweets, scowled at me with brows knitted in mock disgust.

“Mmm,” I replied, licking busily.

We stood by the base of the giant Ferris wheel, with the fresh greenery of Jubilee Gardens at our backs and enjoyed the view of the flowing water. Sherlock’s unruly curls fluttered in the light breeze and his paleness was compromised too, attractive redness blooming like roses on his cheeks.

“But vanilla, John! Vanilla!” His pale eyes piercing my ice-cone were full of disdain. “Is this what tough soldiers eat nowadays?”

“Well, the steak and kidney pie flavour was already sold out, I’m afraid.” I replied, giggling at his consternated face.

Young lady jogger dressed in an almost transparent T-shirt passed by us at that very moment. Naturally distracted, I turned after her and whistled under my nose appreciatively.

A little shiny light twinkled somewhere in the azure abyss of the sky.

Suddenly, something hit me. It pushed into me with such force that I flew to the side, crashed down and stroke my arm painfully against the wall of the promenade. My ice-cream cone ended some ten feet from me, smeared in a sticky smudge on the pavement and Sherlock somehow appeared on top of me, wild-eyed and panting heavily.

“Get off!” I screamed furiously. “Sherlock, what…!?”

I wanted to be angry, I wanted to rant… but in that very second, my shout was cut short abruptly. 

What I held for a tiny, harmless light in the sky a moment ago swished down with an unexpected speed and smashed into the concrete few feet from us with ear-piercing ringing. An oblong, slender metallic object – a crutch with an open cuff. The force of an impact sprang it back into the air and the blasted thing bounced along the promenade wall as if it was endowed with a life of its own, leaving scratches and dents on the spot where it fell. Where I stood a few seconds ago, actually. If Sherlock didn’t tear me to the side…

The cold hand of fear seized my breast in a tight grip. I shuddered and emitted a sharp breath.  
And then…

Another object, dark, large and heavy, landed three yards from us with an ominous thud. Unlike the crutch, it never moved after that. I stupidly stared at it, registering the dust covered shoes, unnaturally bent legs, torso crooked to the side, blood-streaked face and wide grey eyes which gazed glassily at me from among the mess.

In that instant, that chaotic, surreal feeling of being thrown into a grotesque illusion resurfaced with incredible force.

I couldn’t believe how it all came back to me at that moment. It was St. Bart’s all over again and the pale cheeks, temporal bones striped with blood and wide open glassy eyes transformed itself into the features of another familiar face… I’m ashamed to admit it, but I lost it and threw up. Doctor and a retired soldier and I was not able to do a thing, to take control, I just crouched down on all fours and trembled like a leaf, moaning quietly.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was transformed into the whirlwind of energy. He let go of me and darted up, running at first to the fallen body to check its vitals and then to the assembled group of ogling passers-by who just started to panic and shriek. He bellowed at them like a young bull, deep-tone of his clarion-like voice vibrating through the whole area and gesticulated wildly, barking out orders and bossily organizing the place until the people dispersed, some of them running to the Eye, some standing on guard at various parts of the fresh tragedy, some pulling back and phoning frantically and some whispering among themselves.

Sherlock then returned and knelt down by my side.

“Are you all right?” he asked, staring intently at me.

Still weak in the stomach, I nodded slowly. His crystal irises, frost-coloured but filled by lively inner fire, glittered in front of me. He’s alive, I told myself. He’s alive. That thing was never real and is in the past now. I felt his hand on my shoulder, pressing gently and I yielded to it, sitting down to the wall of a river-bank. Calm down, I whispered to myself, calm down, John, calm down…

I closed my eyes tightly and tried to concentrate on the shaky rhythm of my breath.

Ella’s advice on my inner crises turned out to be useful after a while and this kind of self-hypnosis calmed me down a bit. Feeling a year older, I wiped out cold sweat from my forehead and blinked against an unchanged, passive, oblivious sunlight as if I was waking up from a short unpleasant dream. I carefully looked around.

During my temporary blackout, somebody covered the broken body of the poor wretch with a sheet. I was immensely grateful for that. Flashing lights were visible at the edge of Jubilee Gardens and I recognised the distinct figure of DI Lestrade standing grimly nearby with a group of his colleagues from the squad. They were all staring in one direction, up towards the Eye. Come to think of it, the rest of the crowd was observing something on the Eye too. Uncomprehending this sudden interest in the Ferris wheel in wake of the fresh tragedy, I raised my eyes as well and focused my stare on the big white construction high above me.

I glimpsed him at once and ill or no ill, I was on my feet in an instant, frantic with worry. My mouth opened in shock but I was unable to give out a shout in paranoid fear that it could reach him somehow and make him slip.

The Eye was brought into a complete standstill by now. Capsules full of frightened passengers were hanging on the massive structure like drops of dew on a stem of a flower, blue and transparent in clear summer air. Maintenance ladder placed near the rim of the gigantic wheel encompassed the circumference of the Eye as a thin girdle, miniscule and as frail as a straw in comparison with the rest of the structure. 

And there he was, my mad, mad Sherlock, balancing on the steps of the ladder. He was almost at the same height as the spindle of the Eye, so approximately 200 feet above the ground. How he managed to climb there, why he did it, that all was beyond my comprehension. He looked small and vulnerable up there, a toy for the elements and his black trousers and indigo shirt aggressively flapped against his lean figure as bouts of wind jogged against him. 

Thankfully, he seemed to be descending now. Unable to aid him in any way, I nervously observed him, shaking in agitation.

It seemed to take forever until he reached the boarding platform again. Two fire-trucks and one ambulance called by concerned citizens arrived in between and the place was in mayhem, but Sherlock didn’t take heed to it. He swaggered back to the area with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and lit it showily in a bad James Bond imitation, eyeing us with satisfied smugness.

We both rushed forth to him, Lestrade and me – but I was quicker.

“Have you completely lost your mind?!” I barely restrained myself from grabbing him and shaking some sense into him. “What the heck were you doing up there? Did you want to follow this poor sod into suicide or what??”

“Suicide, John?” Sherlock smiled contemptuously. “This was anything but. The guy was already dead before he was thrown out of the cubicle.”

“What? Is this true?” Lestrade gasped behind my back.

Sherlock nodded slowly: “There are numerous wounds on his head, delivered by a blunt object. A crutch that fell down a moment before him is sticky with blood, it even has some hair adhering to its surface. You do the math, Detective Inspector.”

He blew out a cigarette smoke markedly, in an overdone Greta Garbo style. 

Gnashing my teeth, I plucked the smelly cancer-stick from his lips and stomped on it angrily. Sherlock, unpleasantly awakened from his movie-star impersonation by that act, sullenly frowned down on me.

“That would mean… the man who did it is still up there?” Lestrade’s dark eyes grew wide and alert. “Is that why you stopped the Eye? To trap him there? Sherlock, but what about the other passengers in the cubicle! They are stranded up there with a maniac now!”

“Irresponsible madness!” I echoed his sentiments, blazing in rage. “The man could be subdued and arrested already if the cubicle was allowed to come down! And the passengers safe! What were you thinking, Sherlock!”

“I was thinking that the cubicle was most likely private. As is the case, in fact.” My friend retorted defiantly, crossing the arms over his chest. “And the man in question can’t pose any danger to his surroundings anymore, I’m afraid. From the looks of it, he is deceased too.”

We both startled at this announcement. 

“Dead? Are you sure?” Lestrade blurted out and run his fingers through his spiky crew-cut in frustrated desperation.

“Absolutely. He was most likely poisoned. Even through the wind, the smell of almonds was quite strong around the cubicle. Hydrocyanic acid, I’d say. I would be very careful around that cubicle for a while, Gordon.”

Lestrade cursed under his breath and turned around, marching to his unit in haste.

I felt staggered too: “Jesus! To commit murder at such a place, then to poison yourself! And in such a gruesome manner! That’s so crackers! Why would anyone wish to do that?”

“Maybe a man was bored? And this seemed like a good way to spend time?” Sherlock smiled bitterly, clearly mocking my earlier distrust in his ability to evaluate the dangerous situations properly. “After all, summer is such a perfect season for murder, wouldn’t you say?”

And with this Parthian shot he walked away, following Lestrade and leaving me open-mouthed behind him.

xxxxxxxx

“The name of the victim was Charles Murray. Fifty-six years old, owner of the small-sized enterprise, travel agency and accommodation bureau called “North Sea Express”. He died as a result of severe closed head injury, after being repeatedly hit to the temporal and occipital bones of the skull with a crutch which later was found near the crime-scene. The body was then tossed out of the cubicle of the Eye through the emergency exit, together with the murderous weapon.

The man with whom Murray occupied the private cubicle was identified as Thijs De Vries, a Dutch national permanently residing in Ipswich, Suffolk. Similarly to Murray, De Vries, forty-eight years old, was an owner of the business company specialising in production and sale of the house-interior decorations, especially in antique-style plaster sculptures, busts and plaques. His enterprise had two British affiliated branches, one in Ipswich and the second one in Rotherhithe, London, with the main office residing in Amsterdam. 

The aluminium crutch in question was recognised as the possession of De Vries. Apparently, he killed Murray with it and then, probably during the process of disposing of the body, he stepped on the vial containing the solution of hydrocyanic acid. The concentration of the substance was rather high. Our estimation surmises he was dead in less than two minutes.

The motive for his behaviour and his actions remains unseen and is the part of further investigation into the matter.”

Lestrade, visibly stressed and weary, finished his report to the media.

Occasional flashes of cameras and non-stop dim of whispering voices finally ceased and the crowd slowly dispersed. Only one or two individuals approached DI to ask him further questions.

Sherlock stood by the parked police-van, disinterested in the proceedings and busily browsed the net, his eyes fixated on the screen of his smartphone.

I hesitantly drew closer to him.

It was most stupid of me to loose composure and to treat him so cavalierly earlier. I sincerely promised not to do it anymore, then broke my word at the first opportunity. Which made me look like an ass in comparison with Sherlock who was so supportive and patient with me when all hell broke loose last year. He was the only reason Greg Lestrade still talked to me after my former spouse left one of his officers dead and Sergeant Donovan crippled for life, disappearing into US after that. Thanks to his influence, the investigation of my activities as the possible accomplice was a lot milder than it could be in similar circumstances. Sherlock offered me my former room at 221B Baker Street on his own, sparing me the awkwardness of begging and he put up with the presence of little Sheryl without protests until Harry became her legal guardian.

He bore all that and then I insinuate he is mad…

I bit my lip painfully. 

“What are you up to?” I addressed him with a forcedly cheerful smile in a lame attempt to make him speak. “Doing your research of something?”

“Amsterdam,” responded Sherlock laconically, without taking a glance at me.   
Shit! I really managed to anger him this time…

“Well, the Dutch guy resided there, but I don’t see how it all connects with today’s events, to be honest.”

Sherlock answered me by wordlessly handing me a smartphone. Confused, I looked at the screen and read the list of bizarre and sensational article titles:

Massacre! Couple brutally murdered in Nieuw Sloten!  
Cargo ship explodes on Amstel! Ijsselbuurt in panic!  
Terror in Noorderpark! Arsonist on the run leaves Volewijck in fear!  
Diamonds don’t last forever! Audacious robbery at Coster Diamonds!  
Cat among the pigeons! Old lady assaults fellow pensioners at Diemen!  
Shots from a rifle accompany a dog attack as Betondorp wakes up!

With my head spinning from all that Daily Mail rubbish, I turned quizzically to Sherlock again, only to find him missing. He stood with his back turned to me, partly hidden in the shadow of the trees of Jubilee Garden and smoked a cigarette without an undue interruption now, lost deep in thought. 

Damn! My reconciliation prospects were looking bleaker and bleaker with every passing minute. 

These things were so raw between us because of radically changed circumstances of our relationship in the last two months. It was in the middle of spring (19-th of April to be exact) that I threw all my earlier cautions, misgivings and self-recrimination to the wind and bluntly asked Sherlock if I could spend the night in his bedroom. He was somewhat taken aback but he said yes. He even managed to finish the chemical experiment he was working at in record time of ten minutes and promptly retreated into his room with me in tow. What ensued was a fairly pleasant and enjoyable activity. Seeing Sherlock’s eager response to it I believed that I healed the rift my wretched marriage left between us and I congratulated myself for my boldness with which I managed to end this Mary fiasco without a big drama or sweat and tears.

It was in the morning that I came to realise my mistake. I opened my eyes unexpectedly and Sherlock, although he put his bossy and self-confident countenance back on immediately, was not entirely able to mask the disappointment and bitterness mirrored on his face in that first minute. And it as was clear as day to me, what he thought at that moment.

He believed I only used him as a cheap substitute for Mary, or some other female lover.

I shouldn’t jump into this in such a gung-ho manner. I should have spoken to him first. But speeches are one area I especially suck at. I am like Ajax, that unhappy warrior who committed suicide under the walls of Troy for the sole reason of not being eloquent enough. I am prepared to do any daring physical task you can bestow on me. Just don’t demand any heartfelt, elegant orations from me.

Because, if you think about it, there’s no way I could ever explain why I tormented Sherlock for such a long time, sticking my abominable wife into his face.

There’s a certain story which ends with the words: “and when the stupid man closed his eyes, he felt naught but moving clouds in his heart.” I could totally relate to the stupid hero of this tale. The confusing medley of contradictory emotions that seized me after Sherlock’s return from the dead swirled in my head like moving clouds and could never be put into words. 

So I just decided to persevere. I continued to appear in Sherlock’s room and showered him with affection. I hoped that in time he will deduce the true nature of my feelings from these acts.

And now this! Bloody hell!

The sound of steps snapped me out of reverie. Lestrade, looking done for today, stopped by Sherlock and discussed something with him. 

Unwilling to be left out of the case, I hurried to them and got behind their backs right on time to hear the DI say: “Nothing more can be done here, I’m afraid. Let’s wrap it. Come on, I’ll give you and John a lift home.”

Sherlock turned to him with a calculating look in his cerulean eyes.

“Can we stop somewhere before you take us to Baker Street?” he asked with a slightly devilish smirk on his lips, some cunning plan evident in his mind. 

“Sure. Where to?” nodded the unsuspecting DI.

“Not far really. Just to Finland Street in Rotherhithe, right next to Greenland Dock. If we take the route through Bermondsey, we can be there in a jiff.” 

Lestrade froze and then shook his head dismissively.

“You want to examine De Vries’s enterprise? But Sherlock, it’s almost 9 pm!” He protested. “We will look into the matter tomorrow, OK? I’ll let you know when and we…”

“Well, don’t blame me if I get there on my own, then. I asked!” retorted Sherlock.

A short pause filled with stunned silence ensued after that. Defiant blue gaze contested against grave and worried brown one.

Finally, with a sigh, Lestrade surrendered and put the car-keys out of his pocket.

“Finland Street it is then. But only for a short while, all right? I don’t intend to spend there all night…”

xxxxxxxx

Our ride through Southwark was uneventful. In no time we found ourselves facing the romantic waters of Greenland Dock. We stood by the little bridge connecting two banks of the small side water-channel and thus two former rows of dock-houses which were rebuilt into apartment houses some time ago and which were now known as Finland Street.

De Vries’s enterprise was located in the building to our right which was placed at the edge of one row, just next to the little bridge. The massive structure contained a large basement serving as a warehouse where De Vries stored his articles of stock.

We approached the house from the side of the dock. Lestrade unlocked the equipment door, artfully hidden in the façade wall at the ground floor level and from there we all descended into the basement. As we stepped off the last stair, my hand brushed against a cord of a ceiling lamp. I pulled it lightly. In the next moment, the bright light flooded the entire area in front of us.

I felt as if I was thrown into the British museum all of a sudden.

The large, nicely reconstructed underground studio was full of antique statues. The copies of every antique work imaginable, made in every size from the tiniest to the very big, filled the shelves on the walls, long benches placed near the sides of the room and even the separate pedestals. Two biggest ones were situated in the middle of the warehouse, on a makeshift podium. Beardless, decadently naked Dionysus wearing a wreath of flowers and holding a cup of wine in his left and the long metal thyrsus in his right hand was one of them. He was paired with an equally naked but stern looking young archer adorned with a laurel-wreath, stretching a metal bow. 

Apollo.

His presence here startled me – although if I paused to think about it, it made sense that a collection like this would have at least one Apollo among its statues. But I was not entirely rational here. Feelings of unease and curiosity, raised during my visit in Mycroft’s office, awakened in me anew.

And so, while Sherlock begun to examine the place in earnest, I drew closer to the central podium and contemplated over the sculpture.

“Do you know who that is?” Lestrade, not sure what exactly are we doing here and unwilling to join a human dynamo currently prancing about a warehouse, appeared by my side.

“Uh… Apollo, I think. We had such a statue at the university when I was still a medic. They probably ascribed some healing properties to this god, those ancient Greek dudes…”

Sherlock, passing by us at that very moment, overheard my comment and laughed derisively.

“Healing properties, John? Not really. Do you see the arrows fastened onto Apollo’s waist? They are poisonous. Their touch infects you with a bubonic plague. That’s why this god was revered by the ancient healers - out of fear not out of respect!” 

Typical Sherlock. Always wants to have the last word on things. But I won’t let myself be beaten on the concept of Greek mythology by a guy who deleted the Solar System, for God’s sake!

“Maybe he was dangerous, but he was certainly not considered a bad guy in the long run.” I protested. “Didn’t he preside over light, over music and poetry… over intellect, in fact?”

“Well, first and foremost, he was known as Loxias, a dark and gloomy interpreter of ambiguous oracles.” Sherlock, now fully immersed into our quarrel, halted right in front of me, staring me down. “Haven’t you ever heard of Delphi?”

He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, preaching to me: “The Thriae, the trio of bee goddesses, gave Apollo the ability to interpret information obtained from signs in nature. Those bees in the form of nymphs were the ones who taught him the art of divination. Possessing their gifts, Apollo was able to actually predict the future and…”

“Hey!” Lestrade interrupted us immediately, having enough of our natter. “Can you save your argument for later? Sherlock, you promised me we will only stay here for a short while! So move your ass and resume whatever you were doing before! And John, I see a huge book on Greek mythology over there on the shelf. Take it and read about Apollo if you find him interesting, just don’t slow Sherlock down in his investigations. We overstayed our stay here beyond any tolerable measure, as far as I am concerned.”

Stunned by this rant from an otherwise stoic Lestrade, we mutely exchanged glances.

And in that second, as is the habit of these electronic appliances, Lestrade’s mobile-phone rang.

DI answered the call, but having some problems with the signal here under ground, he lowered the phone onto his chest and addressed us: “I’ll go outside for a while. I hope we will be finished here when I return.”

He climbed the thin metal stairs and went out to the street. We could hear the muffled sound of his conversation from outside.

Properly chastised, we returned to our previous activities. Sherlock busied himself with the close examination of collected wares while I approached the shelf placed next to the staircase, containing the book on mythology. I removed the bulky tome off its place, paged through it until I found Apollo and immersed myself into reading.

Some ten minutes later I shut the book again, thoroughly disgusted. My head was spinning. It was beyond my comprehension how this bloodthirsty being could ever be considered the god of light. The massacre of Niobe’s children. The flaying of Marsyas. But above all, the killing of Hyacinthus. Apollo was supposed to be a clairvoyant and yet he couldn’t foresee that a disc thrown by him would be deflected onto his lover’s head, killing him instantly? What a shitty bastard!

Soft, almost inaudible screech coming from above interrupted my musings. I looked up absentmindedly and was surprised to see the door of the warehouse closing.

“Greg?” I uncertainly called out.

Unexpectedly, the door was slammed shut with an excessive force. Keys rattled in the lock hastily, imprisoning us in a studio.

I stiffened for a second. Then I was up on the stairs and I shook the metal panel of the door furiously, but it would not open or yield to my power in any other way. Frustrated, I kicked it, but even that did not move the blasted barrier which cut off our way to freedom. We were really and truly trapped. 

“John!” Sherlock’s deep voice forced me to look over my shoulder. Sherlock stood at the base of the stairs and waved at me, pointing his finger to the other side of the room. “John, leave it! There’s another exit! Come on, we’ll get out through that!”

I leapt from the stairs to his side and together we raced alongside all the statues to the wall opposite us.

There was another entrance there indeed. But it was secured with a trellis composed of firm steel bars on which a heavy patent lock glittered. It seemed downright impossible to pass through it. I gnashed my teeth in helpless ire at the sight and when we came nearer, I grasped the bars with both hands. I tried to wrest them from the hinges, but they were a bit too solid for that.

Still, while I was grappling with this obstacle, I noticed a slight metallic gloss in a corridor which lay behind bars. I leaned forward and squinted into the darkness. 

“Keys.” I heard Sherlock say behind me, confirming my impression.

The set of keys hung on a hook on the side-wall, just a short distance from us. But even that distance proved to be an insuperable problem for me. No matter how far I stretched out my hand, I could not reach it.

“Shit! Won’t make it!” I breathed out, my disenchantment obvious. I turned back to Sherlock… only to stare in shock when I found him removing his shoe.

“Are you sure you should be doing that right now?” I asked, incredulous.

Instead of an answer, Sherlock rose from the floor with a shiny leather Oxford shoe in hand. He leaned against bars as I did before him and raising his long arm, he neatly took the set of keys off their hook using the shoe like some sort of a big spoon in which the keys remained safely caught. Accomplishing this feat as if it was no big deal, he pulled his shoe-holding hand back out of the trellis and handed me his catch with only the tiniest hint of smugness apparent in the corners of his mouth.

“Show-off,” I growled fondly and ruffled his dark black curls.

“Unlock it,” he responded, smiling openly now and hunkered down to put his shoe back on. I complied and in no time we were free from our impromptu prison, heading out through the damp cellar-corridor.

We emerged from the building via the automatic door facing the quiet street shrouded in greenery. Running like crazy, we dashed round the corner of the house and reached the little bridge by which our odyssey originally begun. Even from the distance I could discern the loud whirr of the motor boat. Just as we arrived at the water-margin, the sleek white body of a dynamic-shaped vessel detached itself from the wooden pier and promptly headed to the middle of the dock, taking up speed, leaving only disturbed, rippling water in its wake.

At that time it was quite dark outside. Nevertheless, the street-lamps shining at the bank of the dock cast enough light for me to discern four silhouettes on board of the boat. Three were dark and shady all over – men wearing black balaclavas over their faces to make them unrecognisable. The fourth, obviously struggling with the others, was bare-headed with short-cropped greyish hair. Silver Fox.

I recognised him in an instant and my stomach sank into my boots.

“Greg.” I shuddered. “They have taken Greg!”

Sherlock cursed loudly and grabbed me by the hand. He then stormed through the bridge like a galloping horse. Having no other choice but to run after him, I followed suit.

We sprinted along the line of houses on the other side, flying by the edge of the former dock. The level of water was unusually high, its dark surface glistened only a few inches beneath our feet. I often glanced at it over my shoulder, trying to observe the movements of the boat in the twilight. But it was futile. As soon as we reached the big building towering over the top-end of the dock, the stern of kidnapper’s vessel disappeared somewhere near the centre of the opposite bank. 

“It’s too late.” I gasped, breathing heavily.

“No, it’s not! Go!” Sherlock yanked me by the hand and continued running along the narrower side of the dock, through the South Sea Street, dragging me behind him. I could not comprehend what he wanted to achieve that way but I didn’t protest and tailed him closely.  
At last, the embankment of the Thames spread in front of us. 

And from it, like an elegant long arm, a sleek construction of the roofed boardwalk stretched into the river. A structure I have completely forgotten about: Greenland Pier.

Glimpsing this unexpected sight, it started to dawn on me what Sherlock had in mind and I scanned the area of the embankment hungrily. The pier itself didn’t seem to be in use presently, for its mooring-bollards stood empty. But next to it, right by the small maintenance barrack, the safety metal fence gaped open and thus kept clear the way to the small staircase which led into the waves of the Thames. Blue, aerodynamically shaped jetboat rocked on the water where stairs met the water-level.

Noticing a jetboat, I stiffened in alarm. I cast a hesitant side-glance at Sherlock. My sense of foreboding did not disappoint me – Sherlock grinned from ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat.

“Oh, hell!” I murmured.

xxxxxxxx

My fears proved to be justified – as soon as we drove forward riding a jetboat, the water ejected from under the hull of our vessel drenched our trousers and backs so thoroughly that not a dry thread remained on us.

Holding on to Sherlock for dear life, pressed to his back tightly, I spit out some excessive liquid and spluttered: “Are you sure we shouldn’t call the police instead?”

For an answer, Sherlock vaguely waved his hand in the direction of the river-bank. 

I looked there and got his point. The sleek boat of the kidnappers just burst out of ship-lock of the South Dock Marina which was the only way out of the Greenland Dock too. We managed to intercept them. 

Their craft quickly reached the hypothetical middle of the river and headed south-east, trying to sail around the Isle of Dogs. Lestrade’s compact figure was distinctly visible in it, more so because exactly at that very moment a black-clad gorilla sitting next to Lestrade slapped him viciously. My blood boiled at the sight and I leaned forward, determinedly gluing myself to Sherlock.

“Lead on!”

xxxxxxxx

Our trip down the river was quite trying. Waves were rough and the jetboat led by Sherlock’s inexperienced hand leaped through them awkwardly, rattling us like marionettes with every impact against the water.

When we almost crashed into the buoy, I screamed furiously: “Sherlock, these guys are maybe headed to Folkestone, for all we know! Could you try NOT to kill us before we get there?!”

“Shut up, John and don’t disturb the driver!” bellowed Sherlock angrily in return.

“Oh, you!” I couldn’t move much and so I just nudged him with my pelvis to convey my exasperation.

That was when something snapped suspiciously. In an instant, I felt much colder and wetter than before – not to mention the considerable draft around my backside. 

“Fuck!” I roared in horrified disbelief.

“W-What’s happened?” Noticing my distress, Sherlock stuttered in alarm.

“My belt broke! I can’t believe it! The very day I’m going commando!”

“WHAT?”

The jetboat was propelled into the air with an aggressive force. And just like that, it landed into the big blotch of light cast by the huge tourist boat passing nearby. The tourist boat whose deck was swarming with females, I might add. They were all outside, making an effort to photograph the Canary Wharf or the bowl-shaped O2 building - and obtained another exciting view to that unexpectedly.

Before we managed to escape from the traitorous flood of light, I heard high-pitched squeaks, hysterical laughter and the clicks from at least two hundred cameras thundering above me.

“This can’t be happening! Sherlock, I will kill you!” I hollered once again. “Did you do it on purpose?! My ass will be all over Facebook come the morning!”

The body beneath my hands trembled lightly. The bastard was laughing!

“Well, they came here to admire the beauty of British nature too, I suppose, so…” His voice, muffled with suppressed guffaw, resonated dully.

Outraged by his merriment at my expense, I stretched out and bit him into the shoulder maliciously.

“Ouch! What was that for? Cut that out or we’ll really crash!”

I let go of him at once. Not to obey his command but to call his attention to something I noticed. 

“Sherlock, these assholes are turning to the strand! They will get ashore in a minute!”

“Yes, I see them.” Sherlock nodded, sounding a bit grim all of a sudden. “It’s Silvertown then. They chose a very fitting location for their hiding place, don’t you think?”

I couldn’t agree more. The place was a site of former docks too, but long abandoned and dilapidated, full of shabby barracks and dubious cabins in various state of decay. Part of the area was cleared up for redevelopment and slightly resembled the surface of the moon with its barren landscape. Still, right next to it the dun buildings with blind windows towered over Thames – the very picture of some freaky nightmare.

We landed by the impromptu pier made out of some cement cube rising from the river. The motor boat was anchored by the bollard there.

As we jumped to the dry land again, I fixed my trousers back on immediately. Meanwhile, Sherlock sidled up to the permanently wet brickwork of the riverbank and carefully peeked over it.

I joined him there and whispered: “What now? Do we alert the police that these guys are hiding here?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and shook his head: “If they are cornered here, they could kill Greg in panic or anger. So this is absolutely out of the question.”

“Well, what do you intent to do, then? Do you have a plan?”

Sherlock hesitated. After that, he turned to me with his eyes narrowed in thought.

“I think there’s only one way to do it…”

xxxxxxxx

In a few minutes, after a heated argument and a short tracking of foot-prints, we finally halted in front of the large metal gate leading to the hall covered in corrugated iron.

Sherlock carefully positioned himself and looked at me. Very uneasy, but determined, I nodded in approval silently.

At this signal, Sherlock raised both hands high above his head and kicked the gate open.

“I’m here to negotiate! Please, listen to me!” He called into the darkness inside, his voice strong and firm and his articulation slow and precise: “I’m not with the police. My name is Sherlock Holmes and I serve as the private consultant for various clients. I came here to talk to you about the conditions under which you are willing to release an officer who is currently in your hands. I will act discreetly to fulfil it – just name them!”

For a first few seconds, no response was coming. Only our own breath, so loud in the complete stillness around us, disturbed the cold night air.

But suddenly it rustled inside and in the next moment, bracket lamps illuminated the whole interior.

The hall which stretched in front of us was evidently some fish-canning factory that has fallen into disuse. Long metal counter which previously served as an assorting line stood to our left and behind it, an ugly concrete wall leered at us. This wall, however, only went to the middle of the hall. The second part of the hall, placed to our right, was an open space leading maybe to some storage area at the rear side of the building.

Three men and their captive awaited us inside. Two muscular gorillas with their faces still hidden behind black balaclavas sat on a makeshift bench in the open part of this place, slightly behind the concrete wall, but very much visible. One of them demonstratively held Lestrade by his shoulder to let us know he is completely under their power. Greg, pale and bruised in the face, was forced to kneel in front of them with both hands painfully twisted behind his back and secured by his own handcuffs. He stared at us with distressed but defiant dark eyes. By his side, a small brown crate was situated.

Third kidnapper, also masked, assumed a wary pose behind a counter. He stood at attention and bristled, aiming a nasty looking FN Five-seven at Sherlock.

“Sherlock Holmes?” His voice was smooth and carried a distinct foreign accent. “I know the name. You are that notorious London detective, aren’t you?”

Sherlock didn’t move a muscle nor spoke, but only acknowledged the fact with the subtle nod.  
The man looked at our drenched, dripping, pathetic figures for a while and then twitched his gun to the side, indicating Lestrade with it: “Do you know this policeman well? Well enough to enter his office if necessary? Do you have access there?”

“Yes.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly but responded without hesitation. “Yes, I have.”

“A crutch.” The man hissed at him. “You will bring me the crutch.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and blinked: “Pardon me?”

“I saw you at the Eye, you were there. The crutch that almost fell at you from the cubicle – I want it. It is currently somewhere at this man’s office. I don’t care how you get it, just bring it here. And no word to the police or else…”

He pointed his finger at the small brown crate threateningly.

“Semtex. Try to double-cross me and I’ll tie the officer to it and let him fly, do you understand?”

Sherlock threw a frowning glance at the packet and pressed his lips together.

“You will have the crutch before 9 o’clock AM tomorrow. I’ll bring it to you as it is, unchanged and undisturbed” He replied firmly, with absolute conviction. 

He then slowly lowered his hands and made a slight gesture in the direction of Lestrade. 

“The DI has his phone on him. He has me listed as SH among his contacts. When I will be back with the crutch, I’ll call him. You will take him out after that – unhurt – and bind him to the railing outside, leaving him alone there, so that I can glimpse him before I hand you the crutch. If I don’t see him alive and kicking, the crutch will end at the bottom of the Thames… do you accept this deal?”

I cringed when I heard his bold words. I stared at the masked up guy nervously. But he didn’t protest, just stated dryly: “I agree. It’s a deal.”

“All right.” Sherlock turned on his heel and headed back to the river. “Come on, John, we have some work to do…”

xxxxxxxx

We managed to complete the same crazy ride through Thames once more.

When we landed near the Greenland Pier at last, I was dead tired, hungry, dirty and probably looked like a drowned dog. Sherlock – all dishevelled, wet and wild-eyed - wasn’t much better off. Still, he paid no heed to his pains and broke into an energetic walk back towards Finland Street the moment he stepped back on dry ground. Too exhausted to do anything else, I followed him docilely. 

As we walked away from the edge of the swiftly flowing water, a young man – probably the owner of the jetboat we “borrowed” – flew out of maintenance barrack and looked as if he wanted to yell at us… but one glimpse of our gloomy, awful countenance sufficed to stop him. He chickened out, shrunk back and only stared at us with an open mouth. I gave him a wide innocent grin but he didn’t seem to appreciate it. So I shrugged my shoulders and banished him from my thoughts easily.

We passed along the Greenland Dock and soon reached the warehouse of De Vries where our plight was born some two hours ago.

I have thought we’ll take Lestrade’s car and be off right away but Sherlock unexpectedly headed back to this quiet building. It surprised me, but I did not ask needless questions and just moved after him.

We found the underground studio in the same state we have left it – even the lamp over the entrance was still dully lit as if nothing had happened here in between. 

Sherlock drew forward to the podium standing in the middle of the room and reached out for the statue of Dionysus. After a minute of careful manoeuvring, he succeeded in taking god’s thyrsus out of his plaster hand. He then put this decorative metal rod on the long bench placed by the wall of the room, pulled some black plastic wrapping from the sack visible under the bench and neatly wrapped the object into it. When he was finished, he beckoned to me and we finally left but not before we switched off the lights and locked the warehouse behind us.

Carrying the thyrsus over his shoulder, Sherlock then headed to the Lestrade’s car parked in the vicinity. He put the metal thing into it and took perch in the passenger’s seat, clearly expecting me to drive. I slipped behind the wheel and looked at him in expectation.

“Where to? Shall we go to Scotland Yard right away? Or would we stop at Baker Street first? I’d like to change into something dry before we appear at Greg’s office, to be honest…”

“Yes, that’s a good idea.” Sherlock agreed without further ado.

Very much relieved, I kicked the car into gear.

xxxxxxxx

In the following half an hour we became human again. Sherlock used the bathroom first and dressed after that, while I relished the hot water under the shower.

When I came out with the towel cavalierly worn over both shoulders, I found Sherlock engaged in a weird activity. He cut an orange in half there in the kitchen and was busy fishing pips out of it, placing it into the white envelope carefully. I raised my brows at him awaiting an explanation, but he evaded my unspoken question by pointing out that I am distracting him in my current state and that I should hurry instead, for we are busy. Remembering Greg, I complied quickly, but not without a wide smile stretched across my face.

Afterwards, there came the hardest nut to crack. New Scotland Yard.

When we appeared at the entrance of the MET headquarters in Victoria Street, looking respectable and dependable save the wrapped up thyrsus Sherlock ostentatiously held in front of himself, we were let in without any big problems. We were almost regarded as the permanent fixtures there at MET, so the night porter just greeted us politely and returned to the issue of the Sun placed at his little desk.

Things went smoothly thus far and yet I cringed in torturous fear inwardly. The idea of Sally Donovan possibly having a night duty in Greg’s office scared me to no end. I knew I would be forced to deal with it if it came to that - but this certainty didn’t ease my worry in the least. The thought of encountering a woman whom my wife has left with crippling injury was terrifying still.

The rock of the size of Gibraltar fell from my heart when the sliding doors to Greg’s division opened slowly and revealed Philip Anderson sitting lonely inside the bureau.

Once again, I succeeded to escape from her. For now.

Anderson was very surprised when we entered but his face lit like the three hundred watt light-bulb at the sight of Sherlock. His hero worship kicked in with usual force and in an instant, he was all over him, eagerly asking if he could aid him in any way.

Sherlock, completely immersed into the role of the paranoid detective now, sat down heavily into Anderson’s chair, propped the thyrsus against his desk and pulled the prepared envelope out from his pocket. He handed it to Anderson with a breathless request: “I need to speak with Gaston right away! This abominable thing was delivered to me with the usual correspondence today!”

Puzzled, Anderson took the little parcel from Sherlock and overturned it. The orange pips, five in number, naturally fell out. Shocked at the meaning implied by them, Anderson gasped out loud: “Oh!”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded in a grim resignation. “The message from Moriarty’s organisation. They are threatening me again and I am inclined to leave the town for a while to avoid any trap they have possibly in store for me. But I must talk to Guido first, he ought to know about this. Can you contact him? I tried to call him earlier but he is not responding.”

Anderson’s face mirrored an acute embarrassment. He awkwardly shuffled his feet and confessed: “I called the boss twice during the last hour but he didn’t pick it up. Maybe he turned it to mute for some reason. I’m very sorry, Sherlock.”

During their conversation, I was rambling around the office nonchalantly and surveyed the room together with Lestrade’s private cubicle next door. Glimpsing the objects from today’s investigation, including the crutch, scattered over the table there in their transparent plastic covers and overhearing Philip’s last words, I chuckled in amusement: “Maybe he sleeps at night from time to time, don’t you think? Some of us do, you know?”

At my remark, Sherlock lifted his pale eyes, disconcertingly green like the surface of the marchland and stared hard at me. I licked my lips with provocative slowness and winked at him. 

Sherlock sharply averted his face to the side, shook his head and addressed Anderson again:

“Well, can’t help it then. Tell Lestrade about this disaster yourself in the morning. Unfortunately, I can’t risk it to stay in London until that time. Or… can I borrow some pen and paper from you? I’ll leave Lestrade a message at least and explain the situation to him.”

“Yes, no problem.” Anderson, clearly worried, handed both requested items to Sherlock and moved back a bit, keeping a vigil over him while he was writing.

I emitted a very dry, throaty cough.

No reaction from Philip. Hypnotised by Sherlock’s presence, he watched him as in a trance, blind to everything around him.

I repeated the cough, amplifying its noisiness this time and cursed hoarsely: “Shit! It looks like I’ve caught cold near the Eye! And nasty one at that! Do you have some tea at hand by chance, Philip? I could do with a cuppa right now…”

“Uh?” Anderson raised his head and blinked at me blearily. I pointed at his half-drunk cup with question in my eyes.

“Oh, of course! I have the fresh kettle made in the kitchen. Come, I’ll pour myself the new one too.”

“Ta.”

We retired into the kitchen promptly, abandoning Sherlock for the moment.

“How is Sally?” I asked quietly while we were sipping the sweet, refreshing brew. 

Philip shrugged his shoulders and sighed: “She acts like the old Sally we knew. Outwardly, you wouldn’t say anything is amiss. But her hand ….the hand is almost completely useless and it gets no better… you know?”

I squeezed the cup in my fingers tightly and bowed my head. We drunk out tea in tense silence after that and the long minutes stretched into eternity until Sherlock liberated me from the unpleasant situation by peeking into the kitchen and announcing that he is finished.

Anderson saw us to the entrance and then returned to resume working. I have warmed up to the man in the last two years, but he was a hopeless detective indeed. He never noticed that the wrapped up object Sherlock carried in his hand became shorter and bulkier in shape during our short visit in the bureau.

xxxxxxxx

The atmosphere in the car changed subtly when we got into it again. It was riddled with uneasy feeling even through our way here but now it seemed to be much thicker, more dangerous, as if an ominous cloud descended onto us. I didn’t like it one bit.

Sherlock resumed the place behind the wheel this time and drew into Silvertown at maximum speed, as if all the devils from hell rode at our tail. That’s why I felt as if no time at all passed between the moment we left the Victoria Street and the moment we sighted the ugly barracks of the dilapidated docks caught in our headlights. 

Adrenaline pumped through my veins with such power I was barely aware of the fact that the car has now stopped and Sherlock is calling the kidnappers. I only snapped out of it when the gate of the largest hall opened swiftly and two muscular brutes escorted Lestrade out of the building, handcuffed him to the industrial guard-rail surrounding the nearest hut and left him there while they retreated back into their hiding-place. For no particular reason, the sight made my stomach constrict painfully and I had to swallow around the big dumpling that appeared in my throat all of a sudden. 

When Sherlock threw the door to the car open, I reached out for him on impulse and splayed my hand on his chest, exactly over the spot where the old surgical scar lingered, masked by Sherlock’s clothing. 

“Sherlock.” I managed to get out despite the fact that every bit of moisture disappeared out of my mouth unexpectedly, leaving it as dry as sandpaper. “When we’ll be inside… be careful, OK?”

Sherlock gave me an odd look: “We? You are not going in.”

“Oh…says who?”

Sherlock squirmed impatiently and avoiding my eyes, tried to speak around the subject: “Just consider, John. You can sneak up to Greg and help him to break free while I’ll be dealing with these people inside. It’s much more rational that way...”

“Fuck rational!” I hissed.

I seized Sherlock’s wrist in a steely grip and turned his face to me with my free hand, forcing the eye-contact. I then proclaimed, emphasising every word: “Greg is my friend, that’s true, but you are my priority, Sherlock and that won’t ever change! So I am going in with you – that’s not negotiable! If you think you will expose yourself to danger while I’ll just idle away somewhere, you don’t know you man!”

Visible shadow of distress flickered in his eyes. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. Yet faced with my fierce determination, he was unable to oppose me. At the end, he leaned against the car-seat and flung his head back, staring at the ceiling grimly. Then he nodded: “All right, we will go together. And now listen to me, John – it is very likely that as we go in, they would grab and subdue us. If that happens, let them. Don’t struggle and yield to them. Will you do that for me?”

“I will, yes.”

“Come on then. We must not let them wait.”

We climbed out of the car and set out to the dark hall. Sherlock held the crutch in front of his chest reverently as if it was some bizarre relic to worship. 

Greg started when we appeared in front of the half-open gate and called after us softly, but we paid him no heed. We steeled ourselves and entered the dark interior.

And just as Sherlock predicted, we were immediately grabbed from behind.

Meaty paws seized me and dragged me through the room, until I was bent over the long metal counter I noticed by my previous visit. The loud click sounded near me and in the next moment I found myself handcuffed against the rail running around the perimeter of the counter. Honouring the word given to Sherlock, I didn’t offer any resistance to this treatment.

Loud rustle was audible behind my back, accompanied by curses in the foreign language. After that, Sherlock’s deep calm voice cut through the darkness: “Is this really necessary? We brought you the thing you requested, after all.”

The light-switch crackled somewhere to my right. And just like that, bright light flooded the entire area of the old hall.

One of the huge gorillas held Sherlock by the throat, thick fingers digging into that frail, milky white column with abandon. Yet Sherlock did not fight, merely looked at our captors with contempt. The wrapped up crutch lay on the ground by the tips of his shoes.

The leader of our captors loitered about the centre of the room. Noticing him, Sherlock gave him a disgusted glance and kicked the crutch to him.

“Take it and leave us alone. I don’t care for any of your shit so I won’t raise an alarm. I will free the policeman only after you are safely away. Now go!”

Man lifted the fallen object with caution, something akin to suspicion evident in his body language.

“You are very eager, aren’t you?” He drawled. “Why do you want us to be off so quickly, I wonder?”

And with these words, he tore down the black plastic cover from the offending crutch.

He raised this aluminium rod to the eye-level and minutely examined its grip. In the following moment, he raised the edge of his balaclava unexpectedly. Unusually pale, almost aristocratic face flanked with black beard and neat moustache slipped from under the mask, coupled with the pair of very dark, fiery eyes. The man narrowed those eyes and inspected the grip and the cuff again. He then clasped the grip into his palm firmly and swiftly screwed it off from the rest of the crutch.

The tension in the room was unbearable. Two gorillas guarding Sherlock whooped in excitement a bit. Strange premonition whispered into my ear that all this proceeds too smoothly for it to be real. Ands so I was not even surprised when the pale face of the leading kidnapper turned absolutely stony after he looked into the severed grip.

The bearded bloke pierced Sherlock with the blazing glare right after.

“So you have decided to double-cross me all the same.” He ascertained in a sing-song voice. He walked up to Sherlock and thrust the empty grip practically into his face, observing his reaction like a skulking vulture: “Was that your plan all along, Mr. Great Detective? To take what is ours then scare us off with some baloney? So that we would run away quickly without checking out first if the ware is in its place?”

Sherlock skimmed the empty shell of the handle mutely. He stood without the slightest move, much more rigid than before and visibly shaken by this sudden twist. Yet his voice sounded calm and self-assured: “Pardon me, but that is not true. I have brought you the crutch in the same state it was in when I took it from the DI’s office. I did not meddle with it, I...”

Slap!

The force of the strike wrenched Sherlock’s face to the side. Subsequently, the gorilla holding him twisted his hands behind his back tautly.

“Hey! He’s telling you the truth! Let him go!” I screamed in terror from the other side of the room.

The bearded bloke gave me an ugly look and started to pace the area like a tiger kept in the cage. The gun sticking from behind his waistband glistened ominously and his hands shook as if he was at the edge of the nervous breakdown. 

But in the next second, he was composed and cold like ice once again. He halted in front of Sherlock and addressed him in the mellow, friendly tone that was so fake it forced me to shudder.

“You know what, Detective? I forgive you. I am not a vengeful kind of guy, you see? I’ll set you and the police officer free, safe and sound, without as much as lifting a finger on you... but only if you comply with another request from me. The last one, I assure you.”

The kidnapper put a slim hand on the arm of the gorilla: “Release him.”

And when his accomplice shoved Sherlock to the side in anger, letting him loose, he raised the crutch slowly and offered it to the detective. Clearly puzzled, Sherlock accepted it. The bearded Satan grinned from ear to ear at that and instructed him, relishing every word: “Now you will kill your friend, Dr. Watson, with it.”

Sherlock froze and even from the distance, I saw that his face resumed an ashen colour. My heart leapt in my chest wildly. It then begun to strike against my ribcage in painful pulses.

“I probably must specify it for you, so listen: it’s between you and him. You will end him or you will never leave this place alive. But consider – wouldn’t that be an enormous waste of your talents? It would, it’s evident. So... aim for the head, all right? Hit him the hardest you can until I tell you to stop. The sooner we have this mess behind us, the better.”

Sherlock did not respond nor changed his stiff posture, he merely stared into space blankly, clutching the aluminium rod in a white-grip. 

And afterwards – unbelievably – he slowly turned to me, holding the crutch in his fist. His face bathed in sweat and he looked stricken. Shadows cast by sharp angles of his cheeks lengthened. His hollow eyes met mine and he shook his head faintly.

The men surrounding us laughed uproariously. Our main torturer took stand by the counter to enjoy the show and his gorillas resumed the place at their seats in the open area to my left with similar intent.

Sherlock moved towards me and slightly raised his clutch-toting hand.

I nestled against the counter, almost catatonic with fear and shock. Cold shivers rattled me and as everything went blurry, the series of disjointed visions flashed through my mind reeling off before me like the scenes from the movie.

Sherlock, naked and sated after our lovemaking, laying his curly head on my shoulder. Pliant and trusting as a child, filling me with all kinds of sweet pleasure.

Apollo made of white marble, majestic and cold, stretching a bow and following an invisible target with his blind eyes.

An illustration of Hyacinthus in the bulky tome. Young boy’s body thrown into the dust, the stream of blood rolling down his skull and being thirstily sucked by the scorched earth underneath him.

And Mycroft’s malicious smirk and poignant speech, his all-knowing look fixed on me.

“Don’t succumb to him, John. He’s a cruel god.”

I gasped audibly and returned to the present, trying to steel myself for the inevitable. I realised that I always knew this was meant to happen one day. I didn’t foolishly believe that my dealings with Mary will go unpunished. The resentment had to be there, it simply had to dwell inside of Sherlock for a long time – and now it was allowed to flow out, unbridled.

So I will finally pay for all the pain and suffering I caused him through the years.

Like Niobe and Marsyas. They dealt with their god too arrogantly – and it was their hubris that killed them, just like it would kill me in a little while. And I would deserve every bit of it, since he pointedly asked me not to come – and I did not listen.

Sherlock wholly raised up his arm now. He hesitated for a second and then swung it in my direction with devastating force.

I instinctively shut up my eyes.

The blast came without warning. It was so powerful, it literally lifted me up and threw me against the counter in such a manner that I managed to break down the rusty rail running around its perimeter. Falling down to the ground unceremoniously like a rotten apple, I shrieked out in surprise and pain and abruptly opened my eyes once more.

I blinked in confusion. It was a very different room that surrounded me all of a sudden. Huge pieces of corrugated iron were bitten out of the roof and walls of the hall, their debris covering the entire ground inside. Clouds of black smoke surged out of the holes created that way and to my right the blazing inferno was speedily consuming the entire side of the old building. The open space surrounded by flames looked churned up as if the bomb fell on it. I tried not to think about the fate of two gorillas who sat there mere moments ago. I had no time for it anyway since I was coughing roughly, almost choking on it. The air was thick and all but unbreathable, threatening me with smoke-inhalation. 

But my personal safety was of little significance to me at that time. For in that instant I glimpsed Sherlock and my heart just stopped beating.

He lay on his back with lapels of his Belstaff splayed to both sides and didn’t move. At the front-part of his white shirt, a dark red blot was gradually expanding.

I yelled in heart-wrenching desperation. 

Trembling like a leaf, I scrambled back to my feet and pulled the handcuff off the broken rail.  
However, strange loud din disturbed me unexpectedly. As in a dream, I observed the bearded figure with blood streaked face emerging from among some overturned shelves at the far end of the counter. Emitting the roar of absolute rage, the man ran to Sherlock swiftly and kicked my unconscious friend into the temple. I started. Screaming in return, I quickly lifted the piece of debris wallowing near me and threw it after the attacker. The metal shamble hit him into the back accurately and forced him to snap around.

Red eyes, mad like raging bull’s, met mine. The man roared for the last time and immediately went after me, his fingers twisted into claws reaching for my throat with murderous intent.

Still, he never made it. I clearly noticed the moment in which he stiffened, his eyes bulging out of his sockets. His mouth opened helplessly and as he gave out a short cough, it filled with abundant pink foam. I barely had time to catch his falling body into my arms and to gently lay him down. He was in his last throes already and in but a second, he breathed out and went absolutely still. There was nothing I could do to save him. 

Sick to my stomach, I could only look at the bloodied piece of the broken rail, twisted upwards like a snake poised for an attack, which we both managed to overlook and which pierced his jugular vein mercilessly as he run onto it in his mindless ire.

Staggering forward through the black fog, I reached for Sherlock and knelt by his side, touching him with shaking fingers.

Incredible relief raked through my body when I felt his pulse beating strongly and when I ascertained that no bone of his was broken. The injury visible on his chest was only a flesh-wound caused by the shrapnel which pierced Sherlock’s skin in the moment of explosion. We were both incredibly lucky. I thanked all the saints in heaven for such a close shave and I threw Sherlock’s heavy frame over my shoulder, carrying him out to save us both from suffocation.

Lestrade was almost frantic by the time I appeared, floundering by the metal fence like a trapped rabbit. He cried out in relief when he spotted us and exclaimed: “John! John! What the hell happened? Sherlock… is he injured? And you? Are you all right? Tell me, for God’s sake!”

I put Sherlock down to the soft grass and checked his pulse once again. Content with his state, I sat next to him cross-legged and leaned against the pole of the fence, grinning at the DI.

“Oh, everything is fine, Greg. I had fantastic time in there. I love the smell of semtex in the morning and these guys offered me aplenty. Probably not English, but ideal hosts anyway….”

Greg stared at me as if I had lost my mind. Somewhere in a distance, the sirens of the fire-fighting trucks started blaring in earnest.

xxxxxxxx

“Uh, I’m with the force for twenty years now but I never ever witnessed such zoo before.” Greg resumed a seat in his private cubicle with a deep sigh. Afterwards, he lifted a steaming cuppa from the table and took a soothing sip with deep relish.

We were back in his office at Scotland Yard, absolutely wrung out after the excitement of last night and the subsequent investigations that lasted until noon. We burrowed into comfortable chairs and rested there a bit. Greg and I, we were decorated by a redoubtable set of bruises, while Sherlock sported the white bandage on his head and on his chest which was visible through his partly unbuttoned bloodied shirt.

“What I don’t get is the reason behind these kamikaze’s actions. What the heck did they expect to find in that hollow crutch? Do you have any idea about that, Sherlock?”

Lestrade’s question was merely rhetorical, of course. For Sherlock was already busy browsing the net on his smartphone. Soon, he found the article he was looking for and showed it to me and Greg triumphantly. I found myself unable to supress a faint tremor when I recognised the face of our late kidnapper at once.

“Three weeks ago, an audacious robbery took place at Coster Diamonds, the famous diamond cutting factory located in Amsterdam,” explained Sherlock. “The consignment of the precious South-African uncut diamonds was stolen and three employees responsible for its despatch were kidnapped together with their car. Two men were later found dead, strangled, at the outskirts of the town. The third man, Simon Nijmeijer, captured on this photograph, remained missing.”

“Now, it is my theory that a gang of five people in total were responsible for the crime. With the exception of Nijmeijer and his two butchers, Murray and De Vries were involved in it too. De Vries was responsible for stashing the diamonds in a safe place while Murray helped to get the criminals out of Amsterdam and into another country through his “North Sea Express”. They managed to realise their plan smoothly until they got to the UK. After that, something went wrong.”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders: “What I will say now is only a hypothesis, but I bet it won’t be far from the truth. In my opinion, De Vries refused to hand over the diamonds for some reason and was hiding from his former accomplices. He only agreed to meet one of them on a neutral ground and so they sent the oldest one, Murray, to negotiate with him and chose the private cubicle of the Eye as their meeting place. In theory, it should be the safest place possible, for it offered an absolute privacy there in the air and yet provided the clear view inside which theoretically prevented either of the men to turn violent.”

“But as we already know, the frail protection of the participants that the cubicle offered didn’t last and De Vries killed Murray in anger with his crutch there. The cubicle was booked on Murray’s name so maybe he hoped to run off quickly after landing, before his crime was properly discovered. He didn’t know that Murray brought the vial containing hydrocyanic acid with him. While he was dying, Murray threw the vial to the ground and stepped on it, changing the whole cubicle into the gas chamber in no time.”

“De Vries noticed immediately that something is amiss and threw open the emergency exit to jump out of it. He kicked Murray’s body together with the now useless crutch out to see how it fares. But when it ended on the edge of the embankment instead of in the Thames, he lost the nerve to follow it. Or maybe he was already too weak and near collapse. Either way, he died there within a hand’s distance from freedom. Very nasty death, no doubt.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and steepled his fingers under his chin in thought.

“After we were involuntarily dragged into that crime, I immediately noticed the Dutch connection practically leaping at us. De Vries was a Dutch citizen, he owned an enterprise located in Amsterdam and the other victim operated in the North Sea, connecting Netherlands and the other North Sea countries with the UK. The only motive for their deadly quarrel I could imagine was money or some financial dealings between the two, but not of an ordinary kind, because such dealings would hardly require hydrocyanic acid being thrown around. I therefore made a short survey of the unsolved crimes taking place in Amsterdam in the last month and this diamond matter immediately caught my eye.”

Sherlock looked at us, his whole face shining brightly: “It struck me that the storage place full of plaster antique statues could be an ideal place for hiding such small stones. If these were cast-in into one of the sculptures, it would take an incredibly long time since any stranger would discover them.”

“But this was just my estimate, of course. It was just as likely that De Vries hid the diamonds somewhere else or that he wasn’t involved in that crime at all. I therefore wished to examine his warehouse right away to judge if I am on the right track. Little did I know that Murray’s accomplices are shadowing us with the intent of grabbing you at the first chance, Geoffrey. They were seriously determined to force you to give up the crutch you secured at the crime-scene in some way.”

“The rest is history.”

Greg thoughtfully nodded in approval. “That makes sense, yes. But it puzzles me that the crutch was empty after all. Did you know that would be the case?”

I frowned darkly at this insinuation. But Sherlock wasn’t offended, he merely shook his bandaged head: “No, I was completely mislead by their demand and fully believed that the crutch was the hiding-place for the stones. It was too late, only a little while before an explosion at the docks, that I realised my mistake and discerned where De Vries really placed them.”

We both sprung up after his last remark.

“Where he really placed them?? You mean… you mean to tell us you know where they are?” We stared at him, incredulous.

Sherlock smiled shame-facedly and he actually blushed. 

“Yes. And I’ll show you right away. But you must promise me you won’t comment on it, OK?”

Sherlock rose out of his seat and casually walked to the wrapped up thyrsus recumbent in the corner of the room. He slowly took the plastic cover off it and lifted it carefully, weighing it in his hand. He then seized the artificial pine-cone placed at the top of the slim metal rod and screwed it off with ease.

Scatter of small stones fell out of the decorative cone when he overturned it above Greg’s desk. The greyish pebbles spread over the surface of the table and lingered there like raindrops. We gazed at them in astonishment.

Sherlock wore a self-deprecating grimace on his lips now: “Do you realise what had happened? The moment I believed I was spying them out of your office, I actually brought them in. That was De Vries’ joke at my expense, I guess. He hid them into the insignia of that jolly fellow Dionysus. And the Apollo’s bow contains the second batch of them, no doubt.”

We stood with our gaze blankly pointed at him. Then we burst into the wildest guffaw this bureau ever encountered. Sherlock tried to shush us but realising it’s pointless, he opened the door of the cubicle and escaped to the hallway hastily.

When I finished laughing, I wiped out the tears of merriment from my eyes and went after him.

I found him in a vestibule, standing in the alcove half-lit by the afternoon sun, the edge of light and darkness passing right through the middle of it. He smoked nervously, tipping the ash into the large ash-bin.

I wanted to apologise and to congratulate him on successfully solved case, but he was having none of it. With his eyes averted to the side, he crumpled the cigarette in his fingers and said quietly: “John, about that moment there at the dock… when they ordered me to kill you…”

I put my finger to his full red lips.

“You don’t need to explain anything, I know you never seriously intended to hurt me.” I announced with unshakable conviction. “I was a bit confused there at the dock, I admit. But once I got to think about it with clear head again, it all became evident to me. So don’t worry about that. You should rather tell me how you managed to detonate semtex in that Silvertown hole.”

Sherlock raised his eyes and pierced me with a sharp inquiring look. Still, his face relaxed a bit and he even smirked a little: “You knew it was me?”

“Well, it would be a very big coincidence if their semtex exploded spontaneously exactly in the moment when it did. And I remember now how you threw the crutch over my shoulder in that last second. I am not dumb, Sherlock. Please, tell me everything.”

Sherlock bowed his head and leaned against the wall of the alcove, crossing his arms over his bandaged chest. He directed a determined glance at me right after.

“Yes, I took some fulminating compound with me when I left Baker Street,” he confessed with hard edge to his voice. “You may recall that I examined quite a large volume of fulminated mercury last week in order to find extrinsic adulterants in it. When they gave me that appalling order, I merely put that chemical into the hollow left after the severed grip. I then stepped up to you in order to be nearer to the semtex-crate so that I could aim better when I threw the crutch on it.”

“Now, you are probably aware that fulminated mercury is highly sensitive to shock. The moment it violently impacted against the crate it exploded immediately. It was not able to do much damage on its own. However, it was powerful enough to pierce the thin plywood of the crate and to detonate its contents at once.”

Sherlock stubbornly lifted his chin, his eyes steely and dark: “In a way it was me who killed those men. And yet I do not regret anything. I would kill every single one of them all over for your sake.”

It was a dark confession - and yet I never heard anything so touching in my life. 

I rubbed my chin absentmindedly, disturbing the prickly stubble already growing on it and asked: “Weren’t you afraid we would be caught in a blast?”

“You never would, John.” Sherlock assured me heatedly. “The concrete wall standing behind you would shield you from it.”

“And what about you?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders with disinterest: “I am not that important.”

I immediately lifted my hands, placing one palm onto his sharp cheekbone, the other on his lips sprouting such nonsense. Sharp needles of tears prickled me under my lids but I managed to give him the crooked, watery smile anyway.

“You nutter, you absolutely mad nutter.” I whispered fondly. “Didn’t I already show you how important you are to me? Just you wait… just you wait, Sherlock Holmes. One day I will teach you to hold yourself in a much higher esteem.”

“Hm, if you think so…”

“I don’t merely think so, it’s the promise. The one I definitely intend to keep.” I swore with solemn air and ruffled his dark curls playfully. “But I’ll leave that for later. I think we should speak about some serious matter for a change. So… what about some ice-cream?”

I floored him fair and square. Sherlock was speechless for a while. Still, he noticed my shameless grin and came to his senses just as quickly. 

He lifted the corners of his mouth and leered maliciously at me.

“Well, that steak and kidney pie flavour sounded interesting the last time, John…”

THE END.


End file.
